Daddy's Dirty Collection

The sleek black limousines purred up the winding, tree-lined drive of the Montgomery Estate, one after another, their tinted windows reflecting the dying embers of the sunset.

Inside the third car, Willow bit her glossed lower lip, her fingers nervously twisting the strap of her tiny sequined clutch. The invitation had been vague yet enticing, a weekend at the legendary estate owned by Henry Montgomery, one of the city’s most elusive billionaires.

The promise was simple: "An evening of nostalgia and games." The compensation, wired upfront, had been anything but simple. It was more than she made in six months at the gallery.

“You look like you’re going to your execution,” Lola chuckled from beside her, adjusting the deep plunge of her blood-red silk dress. “Relax. It’s just some rich old guys wanting to feel young again. We smile, we laugh at their jokes, we play some silly game, and we leave with a life-changing check. Easy.”

“Old?” Nora piped up from the opposite seat, her blonde curls bouncing. “Henry Montgomery is only, what, forty-five? And his friends… George Kensington, Frederick Vance, William Blackwood… They’re not exactly geriatric. They’re powerful and ridiculously hot.”

“They’re daddies,” Erin stated flatly, her sharp eyes scanning the approaching mansion. “In every sense of the word. And we’re the entertainment.”

The lead car, carrying Amelia and Ruby, passed through the wrought-iron gates. Nancy, in the second car, watched the imposing stone facade grow larger, a thrill of something dark and exciting curling in her stomach. She’d done her research. These men weren’t just rich; they were a particular kind of ruthless, the kind that built empires and broke competitors. And now they wanted to play games.

The massive oak doors of the estate swung open as the women stepped onto the marble steps, greeted not by a staff member, but by the men themselves. They stood in the grand foyer, a tableau of casual power. They wore dark, perfectly tailored trousers and crisp open-collared shirts, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms dusted with hair. They weren't trying to look young; they embodied a rugged, commanding maturity that was far more intimidating.

“Ladies,” Henry Montgomery said, his voice a smooth, deep baritone that seemed to vibrate in the large space. He was the tallest, with salt-and-pepper hair at his temples and eyes the color of a stormy sea. “Welcome to my home. I’m Henry. This is George, Frederick, and William.”

George Kensington offered a charming, dimpled smile, his gaze lingering appreciatively on each of them. Frederick Vance gave a curt, almost military nod, his jaw tight, his eyes missing nothing. William Blackwood simply watched, a silent, intense presence with a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand.

“We’re so glad you could join us,” George said, stepping forward. “We were just reminiscing about our college days. The stupid risks, the wild parties… the games.”

“Speaking of games,” William spoke for the first time, his voice low and gravelly. “We thought we’d start the evening with one. For old time’s sake.”

Henry gestured towards a set of arched double doors. “In the drawing-room. We’ve set everything up.”

The drawing-room was a study in affluent masculinity: dark wood, leather Chesterfields, the scent of cigars and expensive whiskey hanging in the air. A low fire crackled in a granite hearth. In the center of the room, on a large Persian rug, a circle of plush floor cushions surrounded a low lacquered table. On the table sat several crystal decanters, an array of glasses, and a single, simple bottle.

It was an empty vodka bottle.

“Truth or Dare,” Frederick stated, picking up the bottle and placing it in the middle of the circle. “No limits. No safewords. Just like we used to play. A game of honesty… and consequences.”

A charged silence fell over the room. The seven women exchanged glances. This wasn’t the lighthearted party game they’d anticipated. This felt like a pact.

Amelia, always the boldest, broke the tension. She sank onto a crimson cushion, her long legs folding beneath her. “I haven’t played that since I was a teenager. What are the rules?”

“Simple,” George said, taking a seat opposite her, his eyes gleaming. “We spin. Whoever it lands on chooses: Truth or Dare. If you choose Truth, you answer the question posed honestly and completely. If you refuse, or we deem your answer a lie…” He gestured to a row of shot glasses filled with a clear liquid. “You drink a penalty shot of this special vodka. It’s… potent.”

“And if you choose Dare?” Ruby asked, her voice a whisper.

William’s lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile. “You perform the dare given. No objections, no hesitation. If you refuse…” He nodded toward the shots. “You drink two.”

“And after the penalty shot?” Nancy pressed, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“The game continues,” Henry said softly, his stormy eyes sweeping over them all. “But the stakes get higher. The truths get deeper. The dares get… dirtier.”

He reached out and gave the bottle a firm spin. It whirled on the polished wood, a blur of glass catching the firelight. It slowed, wobbled, and finally stopped.

The neck was pointing directly at Lola.

All eyes turned to her. She flushed, the red of her dress deepening the color on her cheeks.

“Lola,” Frederick said, his tone leaving no room for preamble. “Truth or Dare?”

She swallowed, her earlier bravado faltering under the weight of their collective gaze. She thought of the penalty shots, of the unknown liquor. She thought of the money already in her account.

“Dare,” she said, the word coming out stronger than she felt.

A slow smile spread across George’s face. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I dare you… to take off your dress. Right here, right now.”